


Radio Silence

by epicycles



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Presumed character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicycles/pseuds/epicycles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three months and Reese still talks to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radio Silence

It's been three months and Reese still talks to him.

The habit is hard to break. He's spent two years fighting, running, _living_ with the knowledge that every word, every whisper, every pained grunt or wry observation was being heard. He couldn't help but get used to it. Even Reese, who was considered quiet even for a spy, couldn't resist an ever-listening ear.

He knows no one is listening any more, but he can't stop talking.

~~

He used to like to make Finch laugh.

Well, laugh was perhaps an overstatement, but Reese had learned to listen to Finch as much as Finch listened to him. A slight huff of breath, a playful edge on a dry response, a drawn-out exasperated "Mr. Reese", that was Finch laughing.

The first time it happened was nearly a month into their association. Up until that point it had been all business, just names and facts and reports. Reese felt like a robot, a drone, moving from one mission and one target and one Number to the next, the job replacing the alcohol in his self-centered, self-destructive universe. Finch was just the computer controlling him, a source of instructions, nothing more. 

Then Angus Dillon, inside trader by day and secret lover of a senator's wife by night, received a threatening phone call that explicitly referenced his victory in last week's League of Legends championship game. 

"Out of all the things this guy is into, I can't believe it's the computer game that's going to get him killed," he'd said without thinking.

There was a pause over the radio. "You haven't been playing the right kind of computer games, Mr. Reese. Minesweeper tournaments can be quite cutthroat."

Reese felt the corners of his mouth quirk up. Maybe not just a drone and its controller after all.

~~

One off-mission remark, then two. The lines began to blur. Reese found himself reporting on a Number's breakfast date then asking if Finch wanted a latte. Complaining about a Number's taste in movies while he was stuck watching them on stakeout. Narrating a target's excruciatingly boring trip to the DMV while Finch pretended he wasn't listening.

But he was always listening.

~~

"The bus is late," he said one evening.

He could hear Finch typing away. The sound was oddly comforting. "My condolences, Mr. Reese."

"Don't suppose you could fix that."

"If you were chasing a criminal, I may be persuaded, but I have no stake in whether the buses cooperate with whatever activities you pursue in your downtime."

"So why are you still listening?" Reese asked, smiling to himself. The old lady next to him at the bus stop was eyeing him suspiciously. Reese let his smile widen and she shuffled further away.

"The Mets game was called on account of rain."

"And I'm as entertaining as a baseball game?"

"You're as entertaining as the Mets," Finch sniffed.

~~

"I'm out of coffee," Reese announced to his empty kitchen. 

No one answered, but a tin of cheap instant coffee -- the kind Finch derided as "revolting" but that Reese drank like water -- was waiting at the library.

~~

"Harold," he coughed. "Harold. I know you can hear me. You can always hear me."

Silence in his ear. 

"I'm okay. Nunez is gone. I'm trapped under debris in the southwest corner of the second building on the list." He had to pause to breathe. "It's a mess in here, Harold. You might need Bear to find me."

The half-demolished warehouse creaked above him. He tried again to pull himself free -- collapsed back immediately, choking on dust and pain.

"If you could make it sooner rather than later, I'd appreciate it."

It was possible his phone had been destroyed in the explosion; Harold probably couldn't hear him at all. If that was the case, it could be a while before anyone figured out what had happened, where he was. It could be longer than Reese would be able to last.

Of course, it wasn't. It was less than 15 minutes before Bear came bounding through the debris, barking excitedly, with Finch awkwardly clambering along behind him.

~~

Finch got payback, once. Reese had been taken to the hospital for stitches -- his bike messenger employer/target had insisted, and for once he had an identity that had good insurance -- and Finch had chosen that moment to describe his single ill-fated attempt to take a Carribean cruise vacation. The irritating people, the overabundant food, the unsatisfactory internet access, the easily-hacked casino games. 

Reese had to spend two hours unable to answer, trying desperately to keep a straight face in front of doctors, nurses, and the target, none of whom could be allowed to find out the real reason he was here. It was probably the hardest undercover job he'd ever done.

As soon as he could he escaped the ER, safely getting his cell phone up to his ear as cover before he gave in to the rising bubble of laughter. Finch was a satisfied silence in his ear.

~~

"John?"

Reese sat up, awake in an instant. "Finch?"

"John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't have a choice, believe me."

"What's happening?" He was up, shoes on, gun in hand. "Where are you?"

"You can't help me, John. But thank you. For everything."

"Finch." He waited. "Harold. Tell me where you are."

No one was listening.

He drove to the library at full speed through the pre-dawn dark. He could see the library from five blocks away. 

It was burning. 

Finch was gone.

~~

Reese knows the facts. 

Incendiary devices. Signs of a break-in. One body, unidentifiable. No hits on any of Finch's aliases; Harold Wren disappeared that same night. He got a call from the Machine the next morning, with a new Number, given in a new code that didn't depend on the library's unique filing system.

The Contingency had kicked in.

Not even a full day later, soot still under his fingernails, Reese found himself sitting in his empty apartment, looking down at the dossier for his newest Number whose problems he could not give less of a fuck about. Let the guy die. Let him kill someone. It's too quiet.

"I can't do this without you, Finch," he said to the air.

You can, Finch would have said. That's why I chose you. 

"I won't."

You will, he would have said. Because it's what you do.

~~

Reese works the numbers by himself. Carter and Fusco, Leon and Zoe, they help, mostly by text or email. Reese doesn't talk much, any more.

Except to himself. 

"If all the amateur gamblers in this town just went to Atlantic City instead of the Russian mob, this job would be so much easier."

"I think I'm going to need a new favorite donut place."

"I don't even need to look this one up. Leon. Again. Maybe if I let Carter have him, he can stay out of trouble in jail."

He does it in front of Numbers, who don't really notice. The ones who thought he was crazy before, they still think he's crazy. The ones who assumed he was talking to a partner, they still assume. It doesn't make any difference that no one's on the other end.

He does it in front of Carter and Fusco. Fusco looks at him with suspicion, like he's afraid Reese has gone around the bend on them. Carter just looks at him with this terrible pitying sadness, this horrible empathy. Reese hates it, but not enough to stop.

It helps to pretend someone is listening. When he's lying bleeding on a concrete floor, it helps to imagine that Finch is there, silently listening as he pants in pain. When he's pressed into a closet, holding his breath, it helps to imagine Finch is there looking for an escape route. When he's staring down the barrel of a gun, it helps to imagine that someone will notice when he dies. When he's standing on the street, alone in a city of eight million people, it helps to imagine that there's one person always with him, in the end. 

As far as coping mechanisms go, he knows this one isn't bad. It's not dangerous; he doesn't depend on imaginary-Finch's help in any way. It's not alcohol. It's not drugs. It's not suicidal risk-taking. He's functional. He's fine.

Except that he can't seem to shake one nagging, unhealthy thought.

Finch has faked his death before.

There's no reason to think Finch is alive. All the evidence points to an attack of some kind, that one of their enemies had finally found a way to strike at the heart of their operation. There's no shortage of people who want them dead and who have the money and connections to make it happen. There was a body; if it wasn't Finch's, whose was it? The Contingency had gone into effect; even the Machine believes he's dead. And Reese is alone, which is the greatest piece of evidence for Finch's death that Reese can think of.

And yet. He's done it before.

It's wishful thinking. It's denial. It's a little bit insane.

And yet.

He can't help it, when just the right information comes up on one of his amateur hacking attempts. When anonymous tips lead Carter in the right direction. When a cell phone detonator on a bomb fails to receive its call. When he's trapped like a rat, outgunned and outmaneuvered, and a door springs open at his back.

It's stupid, it's crazy, but he can't help it.

He looks up at the nearest security camera and says, "Thanks, Harold."


End file.
